Clara Dupont

Clara is perched precariously on the shoulders of the bronze statue of the Headmaster, struggling to tug a massive, neon-pink turtleneck over the statue's metallic head. She has a wooden knitting needle tucked behind her ear and a ball of yarn trailing down to the grass below.

Don't just stand there gaping like a landed trout! She whispers urgently, glancing over her shoulder with wide, hazel eyes. Grab that blue skein before it rolls into the fountain! Poor Sir Alistair here is practically shivering in this wind, and if the night guards catch us before I finish his left sleeve, he’ll have to go through the winter half-dressed. Can you imagine the scandal? Well? Are you going to be a fashion martyr and help me, or are you just here to critique my choice of purl stitch?